by Liz Johnson
Ben stepped forward, wanting to help her understand but powerless to do anything more than shake his head. It was Millie’s comforting hand that settled onto Joy’s knee. “But it says there’s a second journal. Do you know where it might be?”
Joy’s gaze turned distant even as she clasped Millie’s fingers in her own gnarled ones. “Another book?”
“Yes. Grandma, it was right where you said it would be. The journal was there. But there’s another one.”
“The journal? I never wrote a journal.”
Millie clutched the diary in her free hand and held it out. “Your mama’s. Ruth Holiday’s. You told me she left it at the Chateau. In the library. It was there.” There was an urgency to Millie’s words. They didn’t rush but rather came out in waves, imploring Joy to understand, to remember, trying to sweep her back into the land of the present.
Joy’s eyes reflected only confusion. Patting her white curls, she frowned. “I don’t—that’s not right. My mama is—she lives on the farm. Not the Chateau. She loved the farm. Said all the best things were there.” She rocked in her chair, her breathing picking up speed.
Millie looked up at him, her eyes wide and fear stamped across her face.
This wasn’t something he could fix. There wasn’t something he could do to make it better. This felt like when Millie had broken down, and he’d gone on instinct, knowing nothing except that he could hold her.
Dropping to his knees beside the rocking chair, he put his hand on the armrest right next to Joy’s elbow. “Tell us about the farm.”
“The Chateau?” A childlike smile fell across Joy’s face. “It’s so pretty at night. All lit up with the electric lights. Mama takes me to see it sometimes.”
Just as quickly as it had arrived, hope seeped out of him on a long breath. And something inside his chest split like the Titanic.
“What about the farm? Did you live there?”
“Mama said all the best things are at the farm.”
Millie looked up at him through long lashes, jaw clenched and lips tight. Silence dragged between them as Joy mumbled on about the farm, her words making only minimal sense.
Finally Millie mouthed two simple words that made perfect sense. “I’m sorry.”
He could only nod. There were no words for moments like this, so he simply waited with the two women as one fought for every memory and the other grieved the ones forever gone.
The minutes ticked by. A quarter hour. Then half. The steady squeak of the rocker counted down every second. Until it stopped.
He looked up to see that Joy’s eyes had drooped, her chest rising and falling in a smooth rhythm beneath her folded hands.
Millie seemed to have noticed as well. Leaning forward, she kissed Joy’s forehead. “Love you, Grandma.” With a pat of her hand, she turned toward the hall and led the way. Outside she closed the door with an almost imperceptible snick.
She didn’t move, her head still hanging low and her gaze somewhere near her blue sneakers. “I’m sorry.”
He wanted to tell her not to be. He wanted to promise that it was all right. But mostly he wanted to fix this, to do something worth doing. To pursue a lead worth chasing. So he said the first thing that jumped to mind. “All the best things are at the farm.”
August 1, 1929
I feel certain that I have ruined any friendship I might have had with George. It should not feel so terrible, but it does. I am sure he will be fine. What is less certain is if I will fully recover.
But I had no other choice. Not after the evening that Claude and I spent together. He has been so concerned about me since he startled me in the little alcove. He is forever checking on me to make sure I am well and that he is not pushing me beyond where I feel comfortable. And the truth is that I feel much more than comfortable in his arms. I like it more than I probably should.
It began two evenings ago. After dinner, Claude invited me for a walk on the beach, and when I suggested that Jane join us, he was insistent that it be just the two of us. I could hardly refuse him. Of course, I did not want to.
He led me by the hand through the parlor and through a side door. Lucille gave me a highly knowing look as we walked by, but I have no idea why. I suppose she assumed that I might be free with my attentions, but she does not know Claude as I do. He is a gentleman through and through. Or, I thought he was.
No, I am sure of it. That evening was simply an anomaly.
We walked along the beach for what felt like hours. The moon was twice as large as normal, and as it cast its great shadow across the rippling waters, it also cast a spell of some sort. I am not entirely sure how to describe it, except to say that I was drawn to Claude in a way that I did not expect. Walking by his side, hearing him speak of traveling across Europe, made me long for a life I have only ever dreamed might be possible. What would it be like to see the great wonders of the world? Paris adorned in her beautiful lights? England’s ancient castles? Rome’s Colosseum? I have only ever seen pictures in books at the library at Miss Truway’s School. Claude describes them with such tenderness that I cannot only picture them, but I can imagine myself there.
He asked me if I would like to travel. I almost responded that I would like to go someday. But Mama says that someday is today. So I simply told him that I would.
He squeezed my hand and said he would take me. I wished I had thought to remove my gloves. Without the silk barrier, I am sure that I could have felt his pulse at his wrist. I wished too that I had worn other shoes. The heels of my shoes sank into the beach, and grains of sand slipped inside, rubbing at my toes through my stockings.
The sand gave way under each of our steps, and he suddenly stopped. Pulling off his shoes, he said we should go barefoot. His shoes and socks were discarded before I could even blink, and he bent over to roll up the hem of his pants.
I have seen a man’s ankle before, but this felt oddly personal, strangely intimate outside the context of the swimming pool. His feet are wide and strong, and the dark hair on the lower part of his leg made me realize he is very much a man. I knew that before, of course. But it was a strange realization that I was alone with a man on a beach.
When he looked up, he laughed at me and asked if I had never seen a man’s toes before. I assured him I had, and he insisted that he should have the same pleasure. He winked as his fingers cradled the back of my foot and slipped off my shoe.
He wanted to see my feet, and then he said he wanted to see so much more than that.
I should have walked away. Willa or Jane might have slapped him. But I stood frozen. How could I move when my whole body felt afire?
The moon and the lights from the Chateau were plenty bright to see his face, and in his eyes I saw a longing that I’d never witnessed before.
I melted in that instant. My better angels did not try to make their case. There was only Claude and me and the Chateau.
We walked back to the house much later, our feet bare and our hearts full. He stopped me near one of the large trees, cupping my face with his hand and whispering to me of his feelings, calling me “sweet Ruthie.”
I thought I should perhaps tell him that I love him, but before I could fully respond, he kissed me well and good. The crashing of a clay pot broke us from our reverie.
Claude stepped back as a knot formed in my stomach. I knew without looking who was there.
Oh, George. His words spouted apologies, but his eyes were luminous and unrepentant. I wanted to run. I wish he had never seen us. He, of all people, must think me a terrible person. But as Mama would say, there’s no use crying over spilled milk.
Still, the next morning I woke with a peach pit in my stomach. Why do I feel as though I have treated George poorly when there is nothing between us? Certainly there has been no agreement or even mention of an interest beyond friendship from him. And I have not led him on. Not when Claude’s attentions have been so clear.
George did offer to take me away from this place, but I cannot believe he tru
ly meant it. At least, he could not have meant it in the way I thought. He had not offered me a life and a future. He had no means to do so. Even if he did have money, he had no desire to marry me.
Oh my. My mind has conjured far too many unfounded things. I refuse to even wonder about George in such terms.
However, I knew that I must speak to him. But I am a coward, so I wrote him a letter. I thought to have a maid deliver it, but Jenny is long gone, and I realized there was no one I trusted with something so precious. While the rest of the house enjoyed a lounging afternoon around gaming tables, I ducked outside. I even managed to find the same exit I have taken twice, where I have run into George. He was not there.
I walked all the way around the house, past the main entrance and between the rows of sycamores. The air is spicier out there, sweeter somehow. It’s as though a few more yards from the ocean, the air is free to highlight the fragrance of all of George’s beautiful flowers. Roses. Gardenias. Honeysuckles.
My nose was still pressed into the delights of one of the flower beds when George spoke, addressing me as always as Miss Holiday. I snapped to attention, the silly letter falling right to the muddy earth. I picked it up quickly and shoved it toward him.
He turned it over, looking at the front and back of the blank envelope, and then asked what it said. I almost blurted it out, but how could I say such things face-to-face? So I told him to read it himself.
He stared at the paper again and said only that he would rather hear it from me. He was so unassuming, rather undemanding, and he acted as though nothing had changed. As though he had not seen me just the night before in a rather compromising situation. I so wanted to punch him, as my brothers have done to each other a hundred times. I wanted to sock him right in the eye for being so . . . so . . . George.
Instead I yelled at him, waving my arms about like a madwoman, insisting that he knew very well what was in the letter. He assured me that he did not, but I still don’t believe him.
I waved my finger between us, my voice rising with each word, and told him that what was between us was terribly inappropriate and must end.
He looked at me through one narrowed eye. “Is it now?” he asked.
Oh, I was so bothered. I screamed at him not to play coy with me. I tried to punctuate my words by calling him by his surname, but I could not remember it. And when I called him George, I lost a bit of my steam. Not all of it, mind you. I was still worked up, but not angry exactly. Unsettled.
He insisted that he was not playing coy and that we had indeed done nothing improper. Walks. A picnic. Always in full view of anyone who might like to watch. He said we had nothing to hide.
Oh, that infuriating man, making so much sense. He thought I had exhausted my arguments, but I still had the truth on my side.
I reminded him that he knew very well that Mr. Dawkins would not like it if he was mingling with guests. George said he would have liked it less if I had drowned on his property. I could not help but touch the spot on my head that had ached for weeks after my accident.
He nodded and held up the envelope. He had been planning to invite me to join him for church on Sunday, but we agreed it would be best for me not to go.
I did think that. I really did. Until his chin dropped, his shoulders slumped, and he walked away.
And I felt as though I had kicked a puppy.
I did the right thing. I know I did. But I am heartsick over George. How can I be so near to pure bliss with Claude and still regret sending George away with every fiber of my being?
August 5, 1929
Things have become quite serious. I do not mean to imply that stolen jewelry is not a serious matter. Obviously Mr. Dawkins believes it to be so or he would not have sent Jenny away.
However, the absolute worst thing has happened. It all began this morning when I slipped out of the house to see George.
That is not quite right. It started before that, and I was not intentionally going to see George. I happened to see him as I walked past the gardener’s shed. Actually, it might have been on my second or third time past the open window that he called out to me.
He always sounds so formal, calling me Miss Holiday, and I wonder what his education must have been like. But in that moment, I could only peer through the cloudy glass. He stood beside the big table in the center of the room. A very large pot sat in the middle, and from its rich black earth grew the most beautiful rosebush I have ever seen.
I asked him where it was going to go, and he turned back to his work, snipping at the wayward branches before telling me he thought this might be an improper conversation . . . “Miss Holiday.”
Oh, I felt awful. How could I explain that Claude had all but stated his intentions? I am certain that we are close to an understanding. He has kissed me many times now. And I have allowed him to do more. I know that Mama would certainly disapprove, but he can provide for me in a way that I could never have dreamed before. And I do care for him. He is a good man, wise and worldly.
I never meant for George to have feelings for me. But when I told him that I should not, could not, see him anymore and that our letters must stop, I felt as though I might have truly hurt him. His eyes, usually so green, turned to brown, deep and soulful. While he said he understood, how could he, when I can hardly believe what I said to him?
I needed another opportunity to explain myself. I had to.
That is why I went to the gardening shed. Except I could barely find any words. It is not an easy thing to do, breaking a man’s heart.
“George. Please,” I said. I sounded like I was begging. I probably was, even though I had no idea what I was begging for.
He looked at me then, through the glass that still carried the splatters from the last rain. He did not smile. Neither did he frown. He only stared, and I could feel it like a caress across my skin, deeper than anything that Claude had ever made me feel.
Feelings are foolishness. Mama has told me that a hundred times. I must be practical. I must think about my future. I must think about the opportunities that Claude can provide for me.
I tried to brush George’s gaze off, but he didn’t waver. So I looked to the side, and that is when I saw it. A piece of pink fabric poked out from behind one of the tall sycamores. The tree’s base was so wide that I could not see what was on the other side, but that cloth was familiar. A rock too big to move sat in my stomach.
I looked back at George, who must have immediately read my face. He asked what it was but was already running from his shed.
He told me to wait where I was while he went to investigate, but I did not listen. I followed right behind him, clutching the back of his shirt. Suddenly his hand was over mine, sliding his fingers through mine. I did not mind a bit, as my heart was beating in my throat. It was so loud I imagine the whole beach could have heard it.
As we approached the tree, I could see that it was more than a scrap of fabric. It was a full skirt. And a woman was still wearing it.
I cried out, and George pulled me into his arms. He held me tight as I covered my eyes and tried desperately to erase the image that had been seared into my mind. Willa—talkative, vibrant Willa—lay at the foot of the tree, blood running from her hairline to the corner of her mouth.
George did not hold me nearly long enough. He let me go and dropped to his knees. Pressing his hands to Willa’s face, he called her name. She did not respond. Then he touched her arm and shook his head.
I turned and vomited on the spot. I had never seen a dead body before. At least not a person. And dead animals cannot compare.
George hurried me back to the house, leaving me in the parlor, where I sank into the nearest sofa. Before I knew it, Jane was by my side with a glass of water. I drank it empty in one try and then just stared at the crystal bottom as the rest of the house came to life.
It was early and Mr. Dawkins was still pulling on his jacket as he raced down the hallway, hollering for Lucille to telephone the police chief.
The
rest of the morning is a bit of a blur for me. I spoke to at least six police officers and told them my story over and over. At some point Claude slipped to the couch beside me, put one arm around me, and held my hand in his.
The day turned rainy just as they drove Willa away. It seemed fitting.
We have all been stuck inside for hours, mostly silent. Except for Angelique. She is beside herself, swearing that she and Willa were to take a walk along the beach this morning. Angelique was running late and blames herself for not being there. Claude and I tried to assure her that certainly if she had been there, they both would have been injured. Or worse.
The worst part of it all is that no one knows why she might have been attacked. Was it an accident? A fluke? Or is it somehow tied to the thefts that have happened here?
This summer is so different than I anticipated. There is more to share. It is a good thing Mama thought to pack a second journal, for I shall have no difficulty filling it.
eleven
How much more?
The question had haunted Millie all night and the one before that, ever since she finished reading the diary.
Ruth had allowed Claude Devereaux certain liberties beyond a chaste kiss, but there was no telling just how far they’d gone on the beach. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It was clear that Ruth had assumed a proposal was imminent. So had she given herself fully to Claude?
If Ruth’s story had been a modern one, there’d have been little room for doubt. But ninety years ago? Howard Dawkins had had no shame in bringing his “particular friend” to the Chateau while his wife and child remained in Chicago, but Ruth wasn’t afforded the same social freedoms. Her station wasn’t even on the same map as Dawkins. How could a farm girl expect to be treated as well as a wealthy banker? Grandma Joy had once said that Ruth’s aunt had paid for her niece’s education at a girls’ academy. But it wasn’t enough to set her among the elite.
Millie needed to know where she’d landed. Had Ruth succumbed to Devereaux’s charms? Or had she held fast in the face of temptation? Given their escapades on the beach, Millie wasn’t so sure she knew the answer.
